You and Me, We Got Our Own Sense Of Time
by singyourmelody
Summary: Austin and Ally and the quarter-life crisis. She shrugs. "Somehow I became the unofficial keeper of Austin Moon's well-being. Not even sure when that happened." He laughs. "You should look into getting a separate phone line. My label might even reimburse you. You're saving them a fortune on shrink bills." Oneshot.


"You and Me, We Got Our Own Sense of Time"

by: singyourmelody

Disclaimer: Don't own Austin & Ally characters. Title is from Vampire Weekend's "Hannah Hunt" which I have been listening to way too much. This is like the longest oneshot I've ever written. I considered breaking it up into a couple of parts, but there wasn't a good point to split it, so thanks for reading!

* * *

His fifth studio album debuts at number 97.

He knows it must be bad before he even checks the charts, because he didn't wake up to Mitchell's maniacal screams of joy on his cell.

His manager always calls.

"_It pains me to write only three little words about one of the most anticipated albums of the year: trying too hard."_

"_Did Moon even listen to this before he sent it out into the world?"_

"_Pretty sure not even a middle school dance deejay would want to play these tunes."_

"_It's amazing that in this age of million dollar downloads, a pop artist would still consider putting out an album that contains not one single discernible hit. If this is some sort of 'passion project' for Moon, he should start looking to his other interests." _

He pours over the reviews for hours and hours, before calling a cab and her.

They meet at a small pub on 42nd street and all she says is "I heard."

He nods and downs another shot.

"Sixths time's the charm?" she offers, her hand on his arm.

And that actually makes him laugh out loud, a harsh sort of laugh, one that scratches his throat.

"I think maybe I need to be done," he states, before gesturing to the bartender.

"Done."

He nods. "Done." He takes another sip of whatever Rick just put in front of him.

"You do realize it's ten in the morning?" she says, staring at his glass.

"You do realize that a good friend would not only overlook that fact, but would start drinking with me?" he counters. He tries to flash her his trademark grin, but he's not sure how well he's pulling it off.

She looks uncertain, but after a moment motions for Rick. "I'll have what he's having."

"And I'll take another," he says.

And that's how they end up mostly smashed at his apartment before noon on a Wednesday.

He follows her in, because she at least manages to get the key in the door and he almost trips over her as she flops down on his couch.

"Get your own cushion," she says, trying to shrug him off, after he collapses mostly on top of her.

He's way too close to her, he recognizes this, even through the alcoholic fog and when he adjusts his body and props himself up, he's looking right into her brown eyes.

"It wasn't supposed to be bad," he says.

"I know."

"Sure it was different and a way for me to sort of grow or whatever the hell Mitchell keeps talking about, but it wasn't supposed to be bad."

She doesn't say anything, but just leans her head back on the couch.

"How could I so completely miss the mark?" he asks her, but really, he's asking himself. Because after all these years, how could he so completely not _know_ himself?

"Maybe you just need to take it back to the start?" she suggests.

He groans. "Please tell me that I am not so close to the edge that you are quoting Coldplay at me in an effort to pull me back."

She grins and bites her lip a bit. "Hey, if the song lyric fits. . ."

"I might just jump off that edge."

"You wanna know what I think?" she asks.

He narrows his eyes. "God help me, I do."

"I think you've lost yourself a bit. Multiple world tours in the past three years. Sold out venues. Interviews on Good Morning America. And all those magazine covers and Grammys. Annaleise. Maria. Sandra. Caroline. Samantha. Maria again. And oh, I forgot Penelope. That was a real winning relationship. . ."

He looks at her, clearly annoyed. "Your point?"

"Is that really you?"

And he hates, he really truly hates how well she can read him. How much she is in his head. How much she is right.

"I don't even know anymore."

She moves to stand in front of him. Slowly she places her hands on either side of his head and bends down and kisses his forehead. "Then maybe you should figure it out."

She steps back and heads towards the doorway but he grabs her arm.

With one movement, he stands and cups his hand behind her head pulling her towards him. His mouth is on hers instantly and his arm is wrapped tightly around her waist and he is kissing her, kissing her. He is kissing her.

She doesn't respond at first, so he pulls away, his eyes searching hers. She looks scared and startled, but then she gives the slightest nod, he's not even sure if he saw it and her eyes flutter closed and he remembers this from when they were sixteen and innocent. Eyes closed means that she is memorizing this moment. That she wants to preserve it. It amazing how he can still remember everything about the way she tastes and how he knows by her posture and the way her pointer finger is moving ever so slightly over his hand on her waist that she wants him to kiss her again.

So he does.

* * *

"Oh, no, no, no," he says as he opens his eyes and searches for his clothes. He quickly throws on his boxers and looks at the clock.

8:17.

He peeks out the window at the darkness and the haze of the city lights and realizes he's been asleep for quite a while.

And he realizes he's not alone.

Slowly he turns to find her lying next to him, her head propped up with one arm, staring at him.

He's pretty certain she's not wearing anything under the sheet. Oh, who is he kidding? He knows she isn't.

He knows things like that now. That does not go unnoticed.

"Okay, so we have a couple options here," she begins. "One: freak out. We slept together. We've been friends forever. We were drunk. It's weird. Two: ignore it. I get dressed, walk out of here, we never talk about it again. Momentary lapse in judgment and all that. Three: we recognize that this is new and scary and currently undefined and that's okay. We'll figure it out, we always do. And instead of letting it be all weird and awkward, we sit here and we hammer out what's going on with you and maybe watch some reruns of Boy Meets World and make s'mores. I'm kind of in the mood for s'mores. Are you?"

He gapes at her, because she's Ally, of course she would come up with a list of options for them in this situation. She probably didn't even sleep at all, but just laid there contemplating all the different ways this scene could unfold and then naming and organizing them. He sometimes wonders about the filing system in her brain. It's probably color coded.

Finally he says, "I think I have marshmallows. . ."

She sits up, carefully tugging the sheet more closely around her. "So, number three?"

He nods, because this situation is so surreal and crazy that he is only certain of one thing. He doesn't want her to leave. "Number three."

He stands there awkwardly for a moment, before climbing back under the covers with her.

"So. . ."

"So. . ."

"So toasted marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate are Ally Dawson's post-sex food routine, huh?" he says, grinning.

She covers her face and hits his shoulder. "Don't be gross."

He reaches over and moves her hand away from her face. "I can't help it. I'm a guy. Sex and food are pretty much my two favorite things."

"What about music?"

He lays his head back on the pillow, but doesn't answer.

"Did you mean what you said at the bar about being done?" she asks.

"Maybe. What do you think?" he turns his head so that he can look at her.

"I think that would be a shame. The world needs more good music from good performers."

"It _is_ a wonder that that Bieber guy is still singing. . ."

"See? For every Bieber in the world, there needs to be an Austin Moon," she states. "Checks and balances and all that."

He stays silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should say what he is thinking.

Finally he decides to just say it. "Why did you and I stop writing together?"

She exhales. "We were busy. My career especially got kind of crazy there for a while. I felt like I was burning out, so I took a break from writing, you know this. And when I came back you had a new team in place and things were going really well. I wasn't exactly looking for work, because I had more than I could even handle. And I didn't want to disrupt what you had going on," she pauses. "It seems kind of strange to say it out loud. We've never really talked about this, have we? It's like it all just kind of happened when we weren't looking."

"I wish it hadn't."

She nudges his shoulder. "You're just saying that because your songwriters crashed and burned this time around."

And she's teasing, but it's also truth. He'd be lying if he said it didn't sting a little.

"So now what?" she asks after a brief silence.

"Now I start 'looking to my other interests.'"

"You saw that one, huh?"

He nods.

"That guy was ridiculous. I caught like three grammatical errors in the first two paragraphs of his article alone. How can we possibly take his opinion as anything other than flawed when he hasn't even mastered the English language? It's ludicrous, really," she states and he loves that her way of cheering him up is by attacking his critics' word choices.

"No, he may have been right. I mean, you heard the album, do you agree with him?" He's asked the question, but he's not sure he wants the answer.

She looks away and when she turns back to him, she appears almost guilty. "I haven't actually heard it. . ."

"What?"

"Yeah, I haven't gotten around to listening to that copy you sent me. I'm sorry," she says and she really does look remorseful.

He exhales. "Well okay then."

He gets out of bed and walks to his large closet, returning with his iPod. He quickly scrolls through his playlists, hooks it into his speakers, and hits play.

"We're listening to it right now?" she asks and he nods.

"I need to know what you think."

"Okay, well turn around."

"Turn around?"

"Yeah, I need to get dressed. I can't really listen to this until I have some clothes on." Her cheeks fade into a deep pink as she says this.

"Um, Ally, I'm pretty sure I've seen it all and touched it all and. . ."

"Austin!"

She stares at him and he knows he's not going to win this one. Sighing, he turns and continues getting dressed himself.

She hums along with his opening song and he smiles. They've been through almost everything together and this is just another thing to add to the list. But he can't help but notice how familiar this whole situation feels even though it's brand new. Some things don't make sense, they just _are_, he knows this, but it still makes him wonder _what if_?

When he turns back to her, she is sitting fully clothed, crossed legged on his bed.

"Interesting chord sequence here. I think I get what you're trying to do. Then again it's almost impossible to hear underneath all of those synthesizers," she diagnoses.

And this is how they spend the next hour: her staring at the ceiling or the wall or the stereo itself as the music washes over her. Him staring at her.

She comments periodically and he momentarily ponders taking notes, but he doesn't want to move from this spot.

When the final chord strikes, she closes her eyes and holds them shut.

She exhales and then looks at him.

He shrugs, because really what else can he do?

"It's not . . . bad. Really, it's not bad. But I feel like I can't really hear the music. I can't hear your songs."

"I don't understand."

"They're buried. Under the drums and dubstep and synthesizers and electronic beats and whatever else your producer used. I mean I know you're playing guitar and maybe even piano but I only know that because I know you. There's not much of you left in the songs that you created," she says.

He lays back down next her and swipes his hands over his face. "That's . . . brutally honest."

"You wanted to know what I thought."

"I do."

He does, he knows this, but it still takes a few moments for it all to sink in.

He's in mid-thought when she says, "Maybe I should go."

"What? No, don't. What about Boy Meets World and s'mores and-"

"It's almost ten o'clock," she says.

"Oh. I didn't realize it was so late. This has got to be one of the strangest days of my life," he says.

"Strange," she repeats, looking down at her hands.

"Yeah, it's almost like everything is turned upside down. My music, which is like my life's work, is bombing. I don't feel like an artist or even like I want to be one. I slept with you, my best friend. Nothing is fitting where it's supposed to anymore."

"Then maybe you need to make some adjustments," she says as she gets off the bed and walks towards the living room.

He follows her.

"You don't have to go," he says.

"And what am I supposed to do? Stay the night here with you?" she asks.

"I thought we didn't need to figure this out right away," he says, quoting her words from before.

"We don't. But you clearly need space to work some things out," she says as she gathers her bag and jacket and shoes.

"And you're not even going to tell me what you want out of all of this? How am I supposed to figure anything out without knowing where you stand?"

She stops moving then and says, "I'm standing where I've always been- right next to you. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I've always got your back, you know that."

He scoffs. "That's not what I mean."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Do you want to be with me?" he finally just asks.

She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again when no words come out. "Maybe we both need some space and time to figure things out."

He groans. "I knew this would change everything. We can try to avoid freaking out and just ignore it all we want, but we're lying to ourselves, aren't we?"

She thinks for a moment. "Look, all I'm sure of at this moment is that today was one of the best days I've had in a really long time. And that was because of you. You can do whatever you'd like with that."

She slips on her flats and wraps her scarf around her neck.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she opens the door and says, "Why don't you call me in a few days?"

He nods and then she's gone and he's alone with his thoughts.

* * *

He lasts thirteen hours.

"I thought we said a few days," is all she says when she answers the phone.

"I know, but I've figured out my end, so. . ."

"Well, I need more time," she says.

"Can't we just meet?" he asks. He knows this will be short and potentially painful and really he just wants to get it over with.

She sighs into the phone. "Fine. Where?"

"The Ugly Mug? You know that café on Washington Ave.?"

"Yeah, I know where it is. Two o'clock?"

"See you then."

He shows up fifteen minutes early and of course, she's already there sipping what he knows to be a soy hazelnut latte.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"So. . ." she prompts.

"I don't think we should do this," he states.

She stares at him wordlessly so he continues.

"It took me a little bit to get here. I actually went for a walk at like four this morning and no one was on the streets and it was cold and it helped me clear my head, but it all came back to this. I am kind of a mess right now. I don't know where my career even is. I can't seem to want to write music anymore. And I don't know how to find my way back. If I cared about you at all Ally, and I do, more than you'll ever know, then I wouldn't let you get involved with me when I'm like this. You deserve so much better," he concludes.

She nods and says, "You're an idiot," before standing and walking out the door.

He follows her, it seems like he's been doing that a lot lately, and touches her arm, turning her around to face him.

"Why are you walking away?"

She wrestles her arm away from his hand. "How can you even say that? How can you think so little of me?"

"Little? I think so much of you. That's why I'm backing out," he says.

"No, you're backing out because you're scared. And you're scared because there's a lot of stuff going on in here," she says, gesturing to his head. "I get that. But guess what? I'm stronger than you're giving me credit for. And if I'm not willing to walk through these harder times with you, if I'm not willing to be with you through this, then I wouldn't deserve to be with you for the easy times, the good times," she says, lowering her voice when she notices the people walking past to get into the coffee shop.

"We are never going to be absolutely one hundred percent ready, Austin. Ever. We're never going to be in the place where everything is perfect, because that place doesn't exist. But we start anyway," she finishes.

He doesn't say anything, because he had been so sure of his resolve just a few minutes ago and now she's completely destroyed his argument and he needs to reprocess.

She nods at his silence and takes a few steps back before turning around and continuing down the sidewalk.

And he recognizes that he really hates the feeling he gets watching her walk away.

* * *

Mitchell books him a week-long retreat and then forces him to go.

"Because running away always solves everything," he says to his manager.

"Austin, trust me, it'll be good to get away until some of the press dies down," Mitchell insists.

"The bad press you mean?"

"Let's be looking forward, okay? No sense in looking back now."

He glares at him.

"I say this mano-a-mano," Mitchell starts again. "You've got permanent gray circles under your eyes, you haven't been on a real vacation in almost three years, you never sleep through the night, don't give me that look, I know what ungodly hours you think it's okay to text and email me at. Austin, you need a break."

"Why does everyone keep telling me what I need?" he mutters.

"Because you're not willing to stop for two seconds and figure it out for yourself."

He knows that Mitchell's probably right. Holing up in his apartment isn't helping and wallowing is even worse and everything will still probably be a mess when he gets back, so he might as well just get out of town for a while.

He sighs. "Fine, but I've got a condition."

* * *

"I think I liked you better as 'Mopey Smurf,'" she says as she drops her bag and sits in the seat next to him. "'Selfish Smurf' seems like a bit of an ass."

"Well, 'Pushover Smurf' didn't _have_ to come. . ."

"Right, because Mitchell's puppy dog eyes and urgent pleas for me to 'help save his life' are oh so easy to ignore," she counters.

"He has always had a flair for the dramatics."

"Are you really so afraid of being alone that you need a chaperone for your vacation?" she asks, sarcastically. She's still upset with him; her tone does nothing to mask this.

The flight attendant moves up and down the aisle instructing the passengers in the proper safety procedures, so he quiets his voice.

"You're not a chaperone. And I'm not afraid to be alone. I want you here. Not just anybody, _you_," he says.

She narrows her eyes as if trying to decide if she should believe him.

"Where are we going anyway?" she asks.

"Mitchell wouldn't tell me."

"We can't be going to Cincinnati right? I know that's where this plane is headed, but it's got to be some sort of connecting flight."

"I would assume so," he says. "I mean, who vacations in Cincinnati?"

She's right. As they descend, the flight attendant hands them two boarding passes for their next flight.

"Chattanooga?" she asks in disbelief. "What is Mitchell doing?"

He shrugs. "My guess is we're not even staying there."

He's right, but this time a driver meets them at the gate and carries their luggage to a small car.

She peppers the driver, Tony, with questions about where they're going and how much Mitchell paid him to make this happen, but Tony just smiles.

After almost two hours of driving, the sun setting around them, Tony stops the car. They look out the window to find an expansive lake and a small lodge sitting to one side.

"Welcome to Tullahoma, Tennessee," Tony says, before popping the trunk and depositing their suitcases inside the front door. They follow him in tentatively.

The lodge is much bigger than it seems at first, with a fire burning in the stone fireplace and a large living area, kitchen and dining room.

"Does Mitchell own this?" he asks Tony.

"Of course."

"I knew I was paying him way too much," he says.

"I'm sure whatever he is making is not enough," she remarks.

Tony looks back and forth between the two of them.

"Will that be all, Miss?" he asks.

"How will we get back to the airport? Is there a town nearby? And a car we could use?" she asks.

"I will come pick you up on Saturday around nine a.m. for your flight. The nearest town is almost ten miles and Mr. Mitchell instructed me to remove all vehicles from the grounds," Tony states.

"_What_."

They say it in unison, then turn and look at each other.

"Mr. Mitchell knows what he's doing," he says. "Good night, Miss. Sir." He nods and leaves quietly.

And then they are alone.

She shakes her head. "I still don't understand why you wanted me to come here."

And he doesn't have a clearly formed answer, not one that would make sense to anyone, even himself.

She picks up her suitcase and wanders around until she finds a bedroom. "This one's mine," she calls out.

He begins to say something along the lines of "Good night" or "Sleep well" or even "Thank you" but while he's deciding, the door slams shut behind her.

* * *

The sun is bright as it rises up and over the treetops, transforming the slightest of waves into shimmering currents. His feet dangle over the edge of the dock and into the crisp water below and he feels more alive than he has in as long as he can remember.

He mentally curses Mitchell for always being right.

After an hour, then two, he decides to make breakfast which translates into him making pancakes, because being a world-famous singer means always having someone else do the cooking and pancakes are pretty much the only thing in his repertoire.

The first batch is slightly gooey on the inside, the second slightly burnt and the third is just right. He's contemplating if Goldilocks is going to come sauntering in to judge his creations when her bedroom door opens and she emerges.

"You cooked?" she says when she sees the piles of pancakes.

"Um, yeah? Apparently I overestimated how much of each ingredient I needed," he says as he counts the stacks. There are six. "Hungry?"

"For some authentic Austin Moon cooking, always. Although I may regret this in an hour or so." She sits on one of the stools and grabs a fork before cutting into one of the stacks.

She chews for a moment. "Not bad."

He smiles.

And she stares at him.

"What?" he asks, brushing his hand over his mouth to wipe away any stray crumbs or whatever she is staring at.

"Nothing. I just haven't seen you smile in a while," she says. "It's nice."

He thinks for a moment. "Do you know that movie you made me watch a bunch of years ago? The one where the movie star moves to some small town and falls in love with a girl, but she's really supposed to be with her best friend and the friend tells her she has five kinds of smiles?"

She laughs a little. "Yeah, I remember."

"I sometimes feel like that girl."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Oh really?"

"Not the part about the movie star or falling in love or whatever, but the part about the smiles. I have so many smiles. Ones for shows. One for magazine shoots and television interviews. One for girls in the early morning when I can't remember their names. . ."

She shifts uncomfortably.

"Those are all fake smiles. I have to consciously think about what I'm going to do with my face. I have to put effort into appearing okay. Who does that?"

"The one you just gave me looked pretty real," she says.

"I think it was."

"Huh," she says.

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a moment.

Finally she clears her throat. "Okay, well that got really deep, really fast and I haven't had my coffee yet, so. . ."

He spins around and gets her a mug, pouring her a cup and setting it in front of her. He retrieves the milk from the fridge and sets it next to the cup.

"Full service here at Café Austin, hmm?" she asks.

"Only the best for you, madam. Now, what would you like to do today?" he says.

"Have you been out to the lake yet?"

He nods. "The sunrise was beautiful."

"Still not sleeping?"

He doesn't answer. She never misses a beat. It's one of her most annoying and wonderful traits.

"Want to take a walk?" he says instead.

She nods and they spend the morning hiking around the lake.

"Are we the only ones here?" she asks, shading her eyes from the sun. There are only trees as far as she can see.

"I think so."

"So are you going to tell me what's going on then?"

He stops walking and turns to her but doesn't say anything.

"Come on Austin, we are away from _everything_. If you can't say it now, then when?" she says.

"So you're my therapist now?" he mutters before he continues walking.

"Might I remind you, that you wanted me to come on this trip. Mitchell wants me to 'fix you,' whatever that means, and no one is even thinking to ask me what I want," she says, coming up behind him.

"Fine. What do you want, Ally?"

And she actually looks surprised, which makes him feel bad. Because of course, he wants to give her what she wants. Of course he wants to be there for her like she is always there for him.

"I want you to talk to me, really talk to me. Like how we used to back at the Sonic Boom, with Trish and Dez and crazy little Nelson. Back before you became famous and went on year-long tours and before we slept together and before we stopped working together. Back when we first became friends," she says.

They come to a clearing and he moves to sit by the edge of the lake. She follows.

"Lately I've been wondering," he starts, "if the thing I love most is the wrong thing. Do you know how that feels? It's like I'm not even at home in my own mind."

"Is this just because of the reviews?"

He looks at her, unsure if he should unlock the doors containing the thoughts that have been building for years now. It'd be so simple. One turn of the key. But he's not sure he could contain what might come out. He's not sure he could ever go back.

So he shakes his head and says "Sometimes it's too much to actually put it into words."

"I know," she says quietly. And he thinks of their late night writing sessions, of the lyrics that always seemed to flow so easily from her pen. Of everyone in his life, she _is_ the one who would know.

They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the wind rustle through the leaves and the water quietly lapping and he realizes that for once, the silence doesn't feel overwhelming. It's not scary, it's not deafening; it's freeing.

He turns and studies her. Her eyes are closed and her hair is blowing across her face and he begins to think that maybe he can exist in the silence, with no music, no lyrics, no rhythm of any kind, except for his own heartbeat and hers that he can't hear but knows is there.

* * *

"So you bend it like this," she instructs, twisting the wire with her fingers, "and voila! Instant marshmallow stick."

"You do realize that we are in the middle of the woods," he says.

"Yes."

"Surrounded by sticks."

"And. . ."

"And we probably didn't need to destroy one of Mitchell's hangers," he suggests.

"Two."

"What?"

"Two," she repeats. "We destroyed two of his hangers." She holds up her own, a perfect metal line and then points to his, a vaguely straight extension with a few kinks jutting out in different directions.

He gives her a knowing look.

"Okay, okay, fine. I sometimes am fearful of eating the stick," she says, quickly, looking away.

"Eating the stick?"

"Yeah. I don't know what is stuck in my marshmallow after I peel it off. It's sticky and mushy and I could be eating a branch!"

He presses his lips together to hold it in for a moment, but it doesn't work and he lets out a full, hearty laugh, one that reaches to his toes. She laughs too.

"You may be the strangest person I have ever met," he says when he can finally breathe.

"Hearing some of your stories from the road, I seriously doubt that," she replies, grabbing a marshmallow from the bag and spearing it onto the end of the wire. She moves the wire to dangle over the cracking fireplace.

"The key to a perfect toasted marshmallow, you know, is patience. Not too close to the fire, but just close enough for that golden glow to warm it, melt the inside, and lightly brown the outside," she says, as she adjusts her position on the floor.

"You have thought way too much about this."

He adds his own wire to the fire next to hers.

"No, I just focus on things that really matter," she responds.

"I feel like there is a thinly veiled insult there," he says.

"Oh, was I too subtle?" she asks, but her eyes are twinkling.

He nudges her a little with his shoulder.

"And since when do marshmallows qualify as something that really matters?" he asks.

She shrugs. "They're something I love, so I guess they matter to me."

He sighs. She's not even trying to hide her prying into his mind. "You really are good at bringing things back around, aren't you?"

"They don't call me the 'Emotions Whisperer' for nothing," she states and he laughs again.

"I miss Dez," he says quietly.

"When was the last time you talked to him?"

"It's been a while," he admits. "He's busy with his classes and the new baby and everything."

She nods. "I still can't believe he became a college professor."

"He's some sort of film genius at NYU," he states.

"Crazy."

"Nah, I knew he had it in him all along."

"You should call him," she suggests.

He nods. "Yeah, I will. Maybe tomorrow."

"You could call your mom and dad too while you're at it," she suggests, staring at the fire.

He watches her for a moment before it dawns on him. "Oh my god, they called you, didn't they?" he says.

"Maybe. . ."

"Unbelievable."

"They just miss you, Austin," she says, turning her position on the floor so that she can face him better.

"Why didn't they just call me?" he asks.

"I honestly don't know," she says after a beat. "I almost wonder if they don't know what to say."

"But they can talk to you," he says, bitterness threatening to creep out with every word.

"I told them to call you, Austin. I don't know why they won't or what's going on, but I know they miss you. They wouldn't have called me to see how you were doing if they didn't," she says.

"I missed Christmas last year. I was on tour in Asia and it didn't make sense to fly home for a day and a half, so I didn't go. I don't think they've forgiven me," he states. He pulls his stick back and suddenly realizes that his marshmallow melted off into the fire. "Well that was a bust."

But she shakes her head and reaches for the package, slowly and deliberately placing a new mallow on his wire.

She leans closer, narrows her eyes, and almost whispers, "We toast on."

"What does that even mean?" he asks, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't even know," she says and she laughs as she sits back.

"I love your laugh," he says without thinking or analyzing. It just comes out.

Silence. "What?"

He shakes his head as if _he_ isn't even understanding the words coming out of his mouth. As if he has lost control of those small chords in the back of his throat that are somehow echoing his every thought without the filter of self-consciousness or doubt.

"I do. I love that sound. It's so light and easy and it sounds a little bit like home," he says, eyes locking on hers.

She inches back away from him. "No."

"No?"

"No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to say things like that because we are not doing this, remember? Those were your words," she says.

He thinks back to that day in the coffee shop, not even a week before. Those words seemed to fit there.

But here? Here, all words from before have been nullified. Scratched out. Emptied of meanings and replaced with new ones.

And he's still trying to figure it all out.

So he says, "Sorry. Didn't mean to make it weird."

She breathes out then and visibly relaxes a little and says, "It's okay."

They eat their marshmallows in silence and then she excuses herself to go to bed and he lays in his for a long while, asking himself when she became so good at lying to him. Because if he knows anything, he knows this: it's not really okay.

* * *

"_Archaic_. With the double letter on the C and the triple word score, fifty-one points."

He stares at her.

"Fifty-one points on one word. Why did I agree to this again?"

"Because you got to pick the last thing we did and now it's my turn, so Scrabble it is," she says, smiling innocently, but not really.

"I think secretly you love to win," he says.

"Of course I do. Who doesn't like to win?"

"True." He picks up his pieces and carefully places them on the board. "_Um_. Four points."

"_Um_."

"Hey, it's a word."

"I guess . . ."

"And the only rule is that it has to be a word. Doesn't have to be a good word," he insists.

"If you say so. Okay, current score is me with three hundred forty-two and you with," she looks back at the pad "twenty-five." She looks a little sheepish as she says this. He knows she's probably feeling guilty for beating him so soundly, because she's Ally and even though she likes to win, she doesn't ever want anyone else to lose.

"Alright, Moon, time to stage a comeback," he says, rubbing his hands together.

His comeback turns out to be less than impressive.

"_Punctuate_," she plays. "Double word score. Thirty points."

"_Cod_," he retaliates. "Six points."

She laughs. "Cod?"

"I stand by my cod," he states, seriously.

She laughs harder and pretty soon he's laughing too.

"Yeah, I don't know what that even means," he says.

She wipes her eyes a little and pushes the board away. "I think we can be done for now."

"I'm okay with that."

He stands and walks to the glass door. "Do you think it's ever going to stop raining?"

"I don't know. I still can't believe Mitchell doesn't have cell service out here or internet. This is the longest I've ever gone without checking the Weather Channel."

"Only you would be missing the Weather Channel," he states.

"Oh I'm sorry, what should I be missing? Facebook? Entertainment Weekly?" she says, eyebrow raised.

"Um, you should be missing my name on Google alert of course. And my twitter updates. And my instagram postings. Don't you want to know what I had for dinner?" he insists.

She grins. "And just how many pictures of pancakes can you post?"

"I haven't posted in two days. My fans probably think I'm dead," he states, teasing.

"Ooh, I can already see the internet rumors. 'Music Sensation Moon Dead in Ditch,'" she supposes, moving to stand next to him.

He shakes his head. "No way. If I am going to die an internet death, it better be more dramatic than that. I'm thinking fiery car crash. . ."

"Or polio!"

"Polio," he groans. "That's like a long, drawn out disease that puts you in a wheelchair, isn't it?"

"Maybe? Okay, how about this? You decided to donate a kidney to an elderly woman in your neighborhood, but tragically there was a mix-up at the hospital and instead of taking your left one, they took your right one, and _then _took your left one too, leaving your body to slowly poison itself to death. Funeral arrangements still to be determined," she suggests.

"You're really not very good at this," he states.

She punches his shoulder. "Shut up."

He stops her hand with his own, but doesn't let go. Gently he swings it back and forth between them. It reminds him of a ticking clock. Tick. Their hands swing up. Tock. And back down. Tick. Up. Tock. Down.

There's something about the natural rhythm that calms him. Gives him strength to say-

"I'm responsible, you know."

"Right and I'm the queen of England," she responds.

"No, I mean I'm responsible for the album being the way it is."

"Oh," she says, catching on. "But you didn't produce it," she says.

"No, but I worked really closely with Tom and Kay. They asked a lot for my input and I let them do those things to my tracks. I even thought it sounded good," he says.

"And what do you think now?"

"Now I keep asking myself how I got so far away from my music that I didn't even realize I had let it all slip away." He tries to let go of her hand, but she holds on tighter. She tugs at his a little to get him to look at her.

"It's never too late," she says.

"I know. 'We toast on,' right?" he quotes her.

"Right."

She lets go and walks back to the couch but stops when he says, "Can we just not break up again?"

She turns around to face him. "Again?"

"Yeah. When you quit writing, we broke up. Not like a romantic thing, but what we had always had, it was suddenly gone. And it's never been the same since, except for maybe now," he says.

She shrugs. "We both let it happen."

"And I'm saying I don't want it to, ever again."

She nods. "Friends and partners, right?" She says those familiar words, but for the first time they sound a little tired, a little worn, a little too rehearsed.

He stares at her, takes her in, starting with her long chestnut hair, travelling down and down and her eyes grow wide.

"Oh my god, Austin, we just went over this two days ago. You said we shouldn't do this. We're not doing it. You can't look at me like that," she insists.

"Like what?" he tries to play it off.

"Like you want to kiss me. Like you've seen me naked. Like you want to cast out all of the rules you set, because you just feel like it for this one moment," she lists, her fingers counting off as she speaks.

He pauses for a minute. He knows he has to keep a calm demeanor here, but he also doesn't want to. Because all those things she just said? They're absolutely true.

"Why did you sleep with me?" he asks.

"We were drunk," she says, breezily, or as breezily as Ally can get, her hand waving through the air.

"Bull," he counters. "We've been drunk together before. It never resulted in us taking off our clothes."

She studies him and he can tell she's debating what she should say.

"Ally. . ."

"We slept together because you kissed me. You kissed me. We haven't done that since we were sixteen and realized we weren't ready for a real relationship. But the thing is . . . the thing is, we said someday. And that someday just never came. Until it did," she says and then looks down.

"And now?" he says, stepping closer to her.

"Now what? Nothing. You've already told me you don't want to be with me."

"No, I said I don't want you to be with me."

"What-"

He interrupts. "I will never be good enough for you. Ever. Even at my best."

"That's not true," she whispers. She shakes her head and says, "When did you stop loving yourself? When did you stop respecting yourself?" She almost looks like she might cry, as if he is somehow hurting her simply by being so hard on himself.

"I- I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."

She opens her mouth to say something, but he stops her. "I know, I know. Just another thing I need to figure out."

His casual tone seems to help pull her back a bit, makes her stop looking at him as something completely damaged. He needs that.

"Maybe you should start a list," she says.

* * *

It rains again the next day.

They make coffee.

She throws in a load of whites.

He casually flips through one of Mitchell's photo albums.

She reads. Some classic that she's probably read before and will read many more times.

And it's an unusual feeling, this being bored. He's actually not sure what to do with himself.

He knows what he should be doing (_thinking_thinking_thinking)_ but it's easier said than done.

He fiddles with Mitchell's record player and finally settles on an old Simon and Garfunkle vinyl album. Paul Simon's smooth voice echoes through the floor-length speakers and he sits with his back pressed up against them, the soft bass pumping at his backbone, the melodic words pouring over him like a baptism of song.

_Are you going to Scarborough Fair?  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.  
Remember me to one who lives there.  
She once was a true love of mine._

"I always thought this was their best song," she says, finally looking up from her book, and he realizes it's the first time she's spoken to him today. "It's so sad and haunting, and honestly I don't even know that I fully understand it, but it might be the most beautiful melody I've ever heard."

He looks at her.

And there it is.

It's such a simple thing really.

He always thought it was their best song too. That it bordered on fantastical and stayed with you, long after you heard it. That it was a song you could feel in your bone matter, in your mind, in the deepest corners of your soul, ones you didn't even know were there.

And that sudden knowledge, that miniscule bit of information is exactly what he needed, exactly what he was waiting for.

He's done wavering. He's done feeling sorry for himself. He's done pretending that everything has been okay, because it hasn't been and it won't be until he does something about it. And he can admit that to himself now, can see a small, faint light in the distance, can almost make out a path.

It's more than before.

But probably still not enough.

It won't be enough until he tells her. Until he commits it all to words, until he forms those words, and executes those words.

It won't be enough until he tells her, and it won't be enough until she hears him.

He stands up and moves to sit next to her on the couch and he realizes that she's turned back to her book while he's been having these big realizations, so he gently reaches out and closes it.

"What-?" she starts.

"This is what I know. I have been half in love with you since we were fifteen. I have wanted to be a musician more than anything in my life. And those two things are intertwined. They can't be separated. That's what's been wrong."

She looks at him confused.

"I separated them," he continues. "Music isn't me. It's me and you."

"But you did fine without me. 'Reverberate' was number one for like fifteen weeks," she says, referring to the first album he created without her.

He knows she's not understanding him, so he tries again.

"Okay, on the first Reverberate tour, I was in Singapore and I was on stage singing 'The Heartbreak You Are' when I locked eyes with this Indonesian girl and she was standing completely still. She wasn't moving to the music, she wasn't even smiling or looked like she was enjoying it. She was almost a statue, even as everyone around her was moving and dancing. And it was so weird to me that she would do that, because she was probably around twenty and was wearing a t-shirt with my album cover on it and she seemed like the person my music would appeal to most, my target market or whatever Mitchell calls it. But she wasn't connecting with it," he says and she nods as if she's trying to understand where he's going with all this.

He continues, "And I don't know why but her face stuck in my mind and from that moment on, everything has felt off. Tours became a string of hotel rooms and takeout. I had to force myself to meet with fans, to smile during pictures. I had to actually count eight counts in my head during dance numbers. Nothing came naturally anymore. And I know now it's because that girl wasn't the only one totally disconnected from my music. I was too. And I thought a new album could fix everything, but it didn't. I think I knew deep down that my album was wrong, even as I listened to the first cuts of my songs. And I didn't do anything to stop it."

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asks, quietly.

"You wanted me to talk to you. This is me, talking."

She gives him a small smile. "Like we're back in the Sonic Boom."

"Only a little older."

"Wiser?" she suggests.

"Maybe. Made more mistakes."

She reaches up and touches his face and he instinctively leans into her hand.

"That's how we become wiser, Austin."

* * *

"Tell me something about you I don't know," he says as they sit side by side, their legs swinging over the edge of the dock.

She thinks for a moment.

"I broke my wrist when I was seven-"

"Playing volleyball at a backyard picnic," he finishes for her.

"Told you that one?"

"Yeah."

"Um, okay. Here's something you don't know. I got a little tipsy at Trish's bachelorette party and ended up making out with some guy. I think he might have been one of the blackjack dealers, I'm not really sure. I didn't even know his name," she says, clearly embarrassed.

He nods. "So the great Ally Dawson isn't a prude. . ."

"Hey!"

"Hey!" he teases.

She lowers her voice. "I am clearly not a prude. I slept with you on whim, didn't I?"

"Oh, so I was a whim huh?"

"Something like that. You're turn," she prompts.

"Hmm. I might request pickles in my dressing room before every show," he says.

"Might?"

"Do. I do," he says, looking down. "Now you."

"I once came _this_ close to getting a tattoo," she states.

"Oh really?"

"Really."

"Of what? My face in a heart?" he asks.

"Eww, no. That's so corny, Austin. It was song lyrics," she says. "Motopony's 'Wait for Me.' It was going to say, 'What a thing to believe in a dream.'"

"Why that song?" he asks.

"It was a reminder?" she says. "To never stop believing."

"I'll have to check it out."

"You should. You're up, rockstar," she says.

"I'm about to turn down a book deal," he says after a moment's thought.

"You are? Why?" she asks.

"Who wants to read my life's story? Okay, I know who would want to. And before well, before everything, I would have jumped at a chance like that. But now, I just want some things to still be mine, you know?"

She nods. "I actually think that's a good move. If you don't want to tell it, you shouldn't."

"Tell that to Mitchell."

"He'll understand. He does want what's best for you, Austin," she says.

"Let me guess, he calls you too?"

She shrugs. "Yeah, somehow I became the unofficial keeper of Austin Moon's well-being. Not even sure how that happened."

He laughs. "You should look into getting a separate phone line. My label might even reimburse you." She scrunches her nose at him, before he says, "What? You're saving them a fortune on shrink bills. You again."

She pauses and bites her lip and he gets momentarily concerned with what she might say next.

"I sometimes regret giving up my recording contract."

"What?" he says.

"I know that writing is really where my heart lies. And I always was so sure, but sometimes, just sometimes I think of how things could have been different," she says and she angles her body to see him more closely. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No, not at all. I meant what I said when I said that I'd always be an Ally Dawson fan, no matter what you were doing."

"Thanks."

"Do you want to pursue singing again?" he asks, but she shakes her head no.

"I'm a writer. I don't think I could ever be truly happy doing anything else."

"I think I feel the same way about singing," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Progress," she says.

"Progress," he agrees.

* * *

"You want the last slice?" he asks.

"All yours."

"I still can't believe you made this. It tastes as good as some of the pizza I've had in New York," he says, taking a bite.

"Why thank you." She reaches for the remote to start the movie. "Are you sure you have it in you for a third one?" she asks, gesturing to _The Avengers 3_ blu ray case.

"I'm in, if you're in."

"I shouldn't be surprised. We're only on the third movie. That Zaliens marathon we went to was what, twelve hours long?" she asks.

"Fourteen, I think."

"Well, this at least will be better than that."

"Don't go knocking Zaliens," he says, seriously.

But she just rolls her eyes and says, "Shhh. Robert Downey Jr.'s amazing hair is on."

The Avengers have just reteamed from a long sabbatical and are arguing over new techniques versus old forms when she suddenly sits up and pauses the film.

"I know how to fix your album," she says.

"What? How?"

"We need to strip it down. I don't believe it, the answer was sitting in front of us the whole time," she says, talking more and more quickly. "I told you that the songs weren't bad, and they're not, they're just buried. We need to unbury them."

He stands up. "Take it back to basics."

"Exactly. I don't know if that means acoustic or just limited background instruments or what, but we just need to take everything down to the barest structure and rebuild it from there. Did you bring your guitar?" she asks.

"What do you think?" he says and he retrieves it from his bedroom. "Now what?"

"Play me track one."

"So bossy," he teases.

"No, I just know what I want," she says.

And he begins to play. She harmonizes with him every so often and her voice mixes so perfectly with his that he actually forgets the words. She stops too.

"Sorry," he says, looking at his fingers traveling seamlessly from chord to chord filling the silence.

"Do you think this will work?" she whispers.

"Let's find out. Track two."

"Wait," she says and she disappears to her own room for a moment, returning with a small brown journal in her hands.

"That can't be-"

"Oh, it's not. This is like the great, great, great, granddaughter of the original. I think I finished the first one halfway through senior year. I actually kind of cringe when I read what I wrote back then," she says.

He raises his eyebrows.

"Oh stop, it wasn't all about you."

His eyebrows go even higher. "But some of it was?"

"Of course. You were my first kiss. A girl writes those things down," she says.

He begins playing the melody of the second track for a few moments.

Her head nods along to the music and she begins writing and the image of her sixteen-year-old self scribbling notes about her feelings for him makes him stop playing.

She turns and looks at him.

"You never told me I was your first kiss."

"Who else would it have been?" she asks and turns back to her book.

And really, that sums up everything, doesn't it? He continues playing.

* * *

"Ally, Ally, wake up," he says, as he gently touches her arm.

"Hmm. What?" she says as she rubs her eyes and slowly sits up. "What time is it?"

He inches closer to her on the couch. "I figured out track seven."

They had been working tirelessly for hours on modifying and reworking his songs and had gotten completely lost on track seven. He was ready to the throw the whole thing out when he looked over and saw her curled up on the couch, asleep.

It was three in the morning, he noticed, no wonder she was exhausted. He let her sleep for a while, quietly playing and scratching out lyrics and then crossing those out and starting again when it hit him and he had to wake her.

"What did you figure out?" she asks, moving to look at the paper he had been writing on.

He shows it to her.

"So you're keeping the verses you have and rewriting the chorus?"

"Exactly. I know it's the biggest change we've made yet, but I think it's the only way to save this song. I need you to write a new chorus with me," he says.

She exhales. "You do realize this is the first time we'll be writing together in years. . ."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, I'm different now. You're different now. What if you don't like what I write?" she says.

"Then I'll tell you. I'm not afraid of that. Are you?" he asks.

She narrows her eyes for a moment. "No, I guess not. I always want you to be honest with me."

"And I always want you to be honest with me."

"Okay, then." She looks at the paper. "This song is about a crazy night out with friends, right?"

"Right. Or at least it was."

"Was."

"Yeah," he says, "I had this idea. What if the verses are about a night out with friends, but the chorus is about coming back home, you know like coming back to the one you love?"

She smiles. "I like that."

So they begin.

Three hours and two pots of coffee later, they've got it down.

"Sing it back to me one more time," he says. "I want to make sure I've got the chords right."

So she sings.

_I go to the ends of the earth  
But it's still not enough  
I've got to get back  
To the place I love  
So I open the door  
And walk right through  
The only thing I see  
The only thing I need  
It's you, it's you_

"It's perfect," he says.

"Yeah it kind of is," she says. She looks a little uncomfortable so she gathers their mugs and takes them to the kitchen sink.

He sets his guitar down and follows her. "God, I have missed writing with you. It might just be the seven cups of coffee talking, but I feel like I can do anything."

She sets the mugs down hard and the clatter rings out through the house. He sees her visibly take a breath, inhale, then exhale and then turn around to face him, her fingers griping on to the edge of the counter behind her.

His smile fades a bit when he sees her, as he leans back on the counter opposite her. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head and tries to laugh it off, staring at the floor, "Oh, nothing."

"Come on," he prompts.

He sees her knuckles grow white as she clutches onto the counter, tighter and tighter, as if all gravity has disappeared and that counter is the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

Her eyes flick up to his then and suddenly he knows. He's not the only one keeping certain things locked up, afraid of what might happen when they all come spilling out. But he's at least got his key in his hand. He's placed the key in the lock and has turned it and is dealing with the consequences.

He's not sure she even knows where her key is.

Or what she might be keeping bottled up, but he suspects it has something to do with the song they just wrote and everything from the past what, ten, no eleven years rushing back with one simple chorus.

He thinks about it for a moment. Maybe it's not her key she's missing.

Maybe, all this time, she was just waiting for his.

He feels a little guilty then. All the years he wasted with things that just didn't matter or actually did matter at the time. That's even worse. Those things did matter to him. He was the person that valued those things. But not anymore. He can't be. He refuses to be.

So he lets out a nervous half laugh as he says, "Ally," and takes a step forward, just one, and then another, until he is standing right before her. His right hand reaches out to her left, and slowly, he pries her fingers away from the counter one by one. When her hand is free, he raises it up so that his and hers are palm to palm and interlocks them. She watches their hands intertwine and looks back to him. And he would take another step closer to her, but he doesn't need to because she does.

They are an inch apart and it's after six in the morning and he can see sunlight creeping in around them.

"I don't want to be wrong for you," he whispers, staring at her lips.

"Then don't be," she says.

And his lips are on hers in less than a second, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer and closer and hers tangling in his hair, down his shoulders, under his shirt.

They make it to the couch in record speed and his shirt is gone, her legs on either side of his, and he's kissing down her shoulder, but there's too much fabric in the way, so hers is gone too, and as his lips are moving, she says, "I told myself I wouldn't sleep with you again. Especially not on this trip."

He pulls back. "We don't have to."

She smiles. "That's sweet and I appreciate it, I do. But it's a little unrealistic at this point, don't you think?"

He gapes at her, as her meaning dawns on him. He's not the one putting pressure here, she is. "You're full of surprises, Ally."

"Good surprises?"

"Great surprises," he says and she smacks his chest.

"You know, my mom always said that boys are only after one thing."

"And what are girls after then?" he asks.

"Same thing?"

"Well, alright then," he says and he resumes kissing her, slowly, teasingly. She groans a bit and he decides that one of the goals of his life will be to elicit that noise from her as much as possible.

He slows things way down then and she looks like she might kill him or force him to never stop or maybe both, when she says, "We're so not doing this on the couch," and stands up, taking one of his hands in her own and leading him to her room.

They stand at the end of her bed, just staring at it for a moment, before he comes up behind her, kissing that one spot below her ear and she leans into him and groans and spins around in his arms, pulling him as they both fall backwards.

* * *

"Still half in love with me?" she asks some time later. He thinks it must be early afternoon by the way the sun is shining through the windows.

"No," he says and she looks momentarily alarmed, so he continues, "My other half has been playing catch up for quite a while now. I think it's made it."

"That's good. I don't do things halfway," she says, nudging herself closer to him.

"Me either."

"I can't believe we're going home tomorrow," she says.

"I know. I think I'm ready though," he says, propping himself so he can see her better.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I've got things to do," he says and she smiles.

* * *

"Good morning, this is NPR's Harriet Milson. I'm here with my co-host, Peter Adams and this is 'All Songs Considered.' Today we are looking at a year in review. Peter, what were your favorite albums of the year? The ones that you anticipated the most? The ones to keep on your repeat list?"

"Thanks, Harriet. I'm gonna start by talking about the album that surprised me the most and that would be Austin Moon's _Course Correction_."

"Let me just stop you right there, Peter. Who would have ever thought we'd see the day when Austin Moon, the crown prince of dance-pop, would have an album we'd be talking about on this show?"

"I know. I don't think anyone was more surprised than you and me, but the songs don't lie. I'm sure you know the story of this album, Harriet, but I'll rehash it quickly for our listeners. _Course Correction_ is actually a modified version of Moon's sixth studio release, _Beat Blowout_. That album crashed in sales, so Moon took the songs and reworked them, producing some acoustic versions and even going so far as rewriting choruses and verses. And the result was pretty amazing."

"I didn't want to like this album, Peter, but as I listened to it, after four or five people I knew told me to check it out, I was surprised. Pleasantly surprised. Is this Moon's masterpiece? I don't think so. At least I don't hope so. He's proved here that he has a lot more to give than what we have seen from him before. And if this album is any indication, we have a lot to look forward to."

He pauses the podcast and turns to look at her.

"I hadn't heard this," he says.

"I know. I wanted to be here when you did."

He stands and wraps his arms around her. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"You're welcome."

His dad peeks his head in the doorway. "You two coming to watch the ball drop or what?"

"Yeah, dad, we'll be right there," he says, not moving from his spot.

She pulls away to follow his dad, but he stops her.

"Mitchell called earlier about the tour again. He needs an answer," he says.

"What do you think?"

"I already told you what I think. It's you and me or nothing. No pressure though."

She sighs and tries to stop the smile forming on her lips. She fails. "No pressure, huh?"

"Austin, Ryan's on!" his mother exclaims. "I don't know how he does it, but that man just gets better with age."

"Mom, gross," he says as they walk into the living room and settle on the couch, his arm casually around her shoulders.

As is tradition, the ball falls and everyone in Times Square goes wild and his dad kisses his mom and they all go to bed.

She pulls back her hair, gets under the covers next to him, and turns out the light.

"If you really don't want to go, I'm not going to make you," he says into the darkness.

"I just don't know if I want to spend our first year of being married on the road. But being apart for the first year isn't good either."

"I know. That's why I told Mitchell both of us or neither of us."

She turns into him and pushes her leg between his. "You're gonna sic Mitchell on me to get me to go, aren't you?"

He grins. "Maybe."

"Sneaky bastard," she says.

"You know you love me," he replies.

They lay in silence for a while and he thinks she must be asleep when he hears, "Okay."

"Hmm?"

"Okay," she says. "Okay, let's do it. Let's go on tour."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"It's you and me, what more do I need to be sure about?" she asks and under the covers, she reaches for his hand.

"Best honeymoon ever," he says.

"Certainly the longest."

"I can't wait to show you China. And Thailand. And I think we are going to Australia. . ." he says.

She might be half asleep as she says, "Mmm, tell me more about Thailand."

So he does.

* * *

End.

* * *

_Thanks for reading and reviewing. Love to all._


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